I watch his tiny little hands, clumsily moving the dolls and furniture around their brand new wooden dollhouse. His birthday present.
With special care and love, I assembled each piece and eagerly awaited the morning of his 3rd birthday — when his pure smile would light it up like the first sunbeam of a brand new day.
I spent days gathering strength for the guests, for the noise. I’m an introvert. Not by mistake. Not because I’m broken. I feel everything — too much, too deeply. I don’t thrive in noise or chaos, and that doesn’t make me less. Every energy that passes through our front door sticks to me like a parasite, draining my own.
But it doesn’t matter at this point.
Because one look at his little feet running, his “Wow mom, this is amazing!” about the decorations and balloons I carefully picked to breathe color into our lifeless apartment, his “Mom, I love you” when I sit beside him — it’s the only thing that truly matters.
Because when those little hands are no longer little, and my face is lined from years of life’s plowing, no one will remember how clean the house was or if the food tasted good.
He will remember.
That I was there.
He’ll remember the feeling of safety.
He’ll remember that we went outside and played with rackets.
He’ll remember that he couldn’t sleep and I pulled him close, held him to my chest and rocked him until he drifted off.
I hope he does.
Maybe he won’t recall the details as vividly as I do, but surely he will remember the feeling.
And in the end, that’s what truly counts.
“Will that dollhouse stay here forever now?” my husband asked, his voice laced with poison.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Does it bother you?”
“The space is getting smaller and smaller,” he added, more venomously.
“Space can’t shrink more than it already is,” the words flew from my mouth, straight from my already-frustrated core.
“Yes, it can,” he insisted, trying to argue.
And suddenly, my words no longer wanted to come out.
His became blurry, distant, irrelevant.
Only one thing remained: the urge to leave that space.
Always the same urge.
I get tired quickly. I don’t argue anymore. I can’t argue anymore. My mind retracts, my emotions disappear — nothing remains but that instinct to go.
“Sweetheart, you and I should go lie down for a bit,” I had said to my little boy, as if my survival depended on it — but still measured, so he wouldn’t sense the panic.
I had to stay strong. For him.
Oh, how I wished I could pack my entire existence into a suitcase and just drive off.
Where? Anywhere.
In my head, his words keep echoing — the cruelty woven into every syllable he directs at me.
I don’t feel his gaze anymore. I’m numb.
I don’t even hear him all the time.
But even the little I do is too much.
My hypersensitivity is a burden in moments like these.
That’s why I write. That’s why I read what I write — over and over again.
And the more I read, the more it feels like it’s not me.
The pain and frustration slowly become lighter.
More bearable.
“I have to do everything myself,” he kept repeating in front of all the guests, playing the martyr.
But why the hell do you have to cook meals that take hours of prep and performance? Why?
So you can play the victim later?
What kind of mind feeds off its own victimhood?
What kind of man humiliates others for not doing the same?
Should I leave our child alone on his own goddamn birthday just to be equally miserable and bitter?
No.
I won’t.
That’s absurd.
You will not gaslight me to that degree.
I have to write this, to get my sanity back.
To hear from others: “No, you’re not crazy.”
Trust me — that matters.
It matters so much.
“Guess madam couldn’t be bothered to bake a cake,” he spat out in front of everyone, trying to humiliate me.
“It wouldn’t kill her highness to show up sometime,” he told our neighbors.
He is the victim.
Because he always has to.
But does he, really?
Am I a bad mother because I work late and didn’t bake a cake until dawn?
Is that the measure of my love?
What about everything else?
Is it truly possible that so much venom can flow from someone I share my life with?
And the final straw — when our child had a meltdown:
“Do I have to come over there?”
He said it.
And I can tolerate many things, but direct or subtle physical threats — never.
Not once.
You will not lay your filthy hands on the child I carried, the child I gave birth to, the child I almost died for.
You will not take your fragile ego out on him.
You will not project your old-school, primitive rage on a child who’s just overwhelmed.
You simply — WILL NOT.
And that’s when I snapped.
“And what exactly will happen when you come over?” I fired, in front of everyone.
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him. You don’t always have to interfere.”
“Of course I do,” I replied, already trembling in the deepest part of my soul.
Why am I still here?
Some might ask.
Here’s why:
Because we live in a system where fathers are treated like rare spring flowers.
Because my child is still too young to express himself in front of institutions.
Because we are caught in the claws of a manipulator who can twist everything to his favor.
He managed to keep me in delusion for years — how can I expect others to see it in one short assessment?
Because life has become so painfully hard that there is nowhere to go — and they would use that against me too.
Because he never took care of this child, and I’m scared —
What if he gets a fever?
What if something happens and he doesn’t know what to do?
That’s why I have to wait.
Just a little longer.
The right time.
The right support — maybe?
But it will come.
I know it will.
And until then,
words are all I have.
And the eyes that read them.
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